Chapter 112 #30: This Wasn't Here Last Week
I just stand there in Lucy’s doorway, staring at her unmade bed, my mind refusing to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.
This can’t be happening.
“Lucy?” I call again, louder this time, already knowing it won’t change anything.
I check the closet. I already checked it, but I check it again anyway, pushing aside her dresses, her tiny jackets, and the raincoat she insists on wearing even when it isn’t raining.
“Lucy, baby,” my voice cracks on her name, “if you’re playing a joke on mommy, I’m not amused. Come out now.”
Still nothing.
My phone is already in my hand and I dial Vincent again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
The panic that was simmering under my skin boils over. Vincent left angry and drunk. And he left with my daughter. The thought lands so hard I have to brace one hand against the wall.
He wouldn’t hurt her, I know that deep in my bones, but he’s not thinking clearly. He’s hurt and humiliated. And it makes sense that he took her because he knew it would destroy me.
I run for the elevator barefoot in my pyjamas. The doors slide open as I reach and proceed to jab the lobby button repeatedly until they close. When I reach downstairs, I see that David is still in the car, with the headlights off. The second he sees me sprinting across the sidewalk, he’s out and slamming the door behind him.
“What's going–”
“He took her.” The words come out in a rush. “Vincent. When I went up, Lucy was in her bedroom colouring. I went to my bedroom to shower and change and there Vincent was, drunk and angry. He asked where I’d been all day and when I admitted everything to him...”
My voice begins to tremble and I have no willpower left to fight it anymore.
“Vincent left angry and now her bed's empty,” I manage to choke out. “I checked everywhere in the house and she isn’t there.”
“I'll follow the direction he went before the trail gets too cold,” David says, opening the car door.
I nod my head, beginning to get into the passenger seat on the other side.
“No.” He places a gentle hand on mine, stopping me. “You stay here, call the police and place a report.”
I shake my head. “I can’t just–“
“They’ll have access to cameras... traffic cams... something,” he insists. “Keep your phone on. I’ll circle back the second I know anything. Go.”
He’s already moving toward the driver’s side. I grab his sleeve before he can disappear.
“David.”
He stops.
“If you find them,” I say in a low voice, “don’t do anything stupid. Just call me.”
He meets my gaze. “Only promise I can make to you right now is that I will bring our daughter home to you in one piece. Not sure I can say the same about the state your husband will be in.”
Then he’s gone, the car pulling away from the curb with a soft squeal of tires.
I stand on the sidewalk for a second, feeling the wind cutting through my thin dress, before I force my legs to move back inside. Up the elevator, and into the apartment.
I call 911 first.
The dispatcher is calm. Too calm in my opinion, given the situation. I give her the address and explain the situation in short, clipped sentences: Missing child. Father took her. Possible intoxication. Custody dispute. She asks questions: Age. Description. Last seen. I answer everything while I pace the living room, eyes scanning every corner as if Lucy might suddenly appear behind the couch.
When I hang up I’m shaking so hard I have to sit on the arm of the sofa.
Twenty minutes later two officers arrive. One is older, grey at the temples, with calm eyes. The other is younger and holding a notebook already open.
They walk through the apartment with me and proceed to check the bedroom. The colouring book. The empty bed. They ask the same questions the dispatcher asked and I answer again.
The older officer – Martinez, according to his badge – sighs when we finish the tour.
“Mrs. Calder, I understand you’re scared. But legally, Mr. Vincent is the child’s father. Unless there’s a court order restricting his access, he has every right to take her out. Even without telling you first.”
“He was drunk and angry,” I say. “He pulled a gun on us a few weeks ago. I had asked him for a divorce a few days ago too. He left without a word after I told him I’d been... with someone else. Doesn't that all seem like possible motive?"
Martinez exchanges a look with his partner. “Did he threaten to harm the child?”
“No. But–”
“Did he threaten to harm you or anyone else tonight?”
I swallow. “No.”
The younger officer closes his notebook. “We’ll file the report and put out a description of the vehicle and the child. But unless there’s evidence of imminent danger, we can’t treat this as an abduction. We’ll check hospitals, patrol the usual routes. If he doesn’t bring her back by morning, call us again and we’ll escalate.”
They leave me standing in the doorway with a report number scribbled on a card I barely register.
I close the door. Lean against it, and try to breathe.
David returns forty minutes later. He finds me on the living room floor with my back to the couch and my knees drawn up.
He drops beside me without a word, then pulls me against his side.
“I lost him,” he says quietly. “He took the FDR south, then disappeared around the Midtown Tunnel. There were too many exits. I circled every ramp I could find, but... I'm sorry.”
I nod against his shoulder. The panic is still there, clawing at my throat, but his arm around me keeps it from swallowing me whole. We're silent for a while before he speaks again.
“I know I've met her only once,” he murmurs. “but that was more than enough for me to see she’s just like her mother. She’s strong and smart like you, Nora. She’ll be okay. He won’t hurt her. He’s angry at us, not her.”
“I know.” My voice cracks. “But she’s scared. She doesn’t understand why Daddy’s mad... she’ll think she did something wrong.”
“We’ll find her.” David tightens his hold for a moment and releases me. “I have my best men on it already. Every single mafia tie I still have is going to relentlessly comb the city until we find her. He’s not going to get far.”
I lift my head. “I think we should search his things. There might be something here... A note... a destination... something.”
We move together.
We check his office first – desk drawers, filing cabinets – but find nothing but contracts, financial statements, and board meeting notes. I flip through them anyway, looking for anything out of place. Nothing.
Bedroom next. His side of the closet. Suit pockets. Nothing.
Nightstand. Condoms. Watch charger. A receipt from a gas station two days ago. Nothing useful.
I drop to my knees beside his desk, checking under it for anything taped or hidden and then feel my fingers brush metal. I bend over to look and I see a small safe bolted to the floor with a combination lock.
I look up at David. “This wasn’t here last week.”
He crouches beside me. “You know the code?”
“No. But I know someone who can get it open.”
I pull out my phone and dial Nico.
He answers after four rings. “This better be good.”
“I need you. “ I say into the phone.
“Nora I have a meeting with some investors tom–“
“Nico, it’s about Lucy.” I don’t bother to hide the desperation in my voice. “Please.”
A pause. “On my way.”
Nico arrives thirty minutes later with a black duffel and the calm efficiency of someone who’s done this before. He doesn’t ask questions. He just drops beside the safe, pulls out tools, and gets to work.
David and I stand back, watching. Ten minutes of soft clicks and muttered curses, and then a final, satisfying thunk and the door swings open.
We look inside and I freeze when I see what the safe holds.
On top is a single sheet of paper now yellowed at the edges. I recognize the notary seal and spidery signature at the bottom. It’s my father's will. The very same one even I haven’t opened all these years.
But that's not what shocks me the most. I freeze as I pull out the contents of the safe.
Because right underneath the will, bound in cracked black leather... is Malcolm’s ledger.